Confession. I wrote yesterday’s and today’s posts as one long post and then went ahead and split it in two. Not because I was knackered and trying to cheat the system. I was thinking of you, dear readers, thinking you’d prefer hors d’oeuvres to a massive entrée. Much easier to digest this way, I think you’ll agree. Plus I needed time to go through the 2,547 photos that I snapped with my Canon PowerShot A510 from 2005 to 2008, which took me down memory lane, which was a much longer trip than I intended to take and now here we are, 10pm on a Thursday, which is way past my bedtime so I’m thinking that not only am I serving you hors d’oeuvres, I’m serving up those crappy ones that everyone leaves on the platter because I don’t even think I have the energy to edit this post, y’all. Here’s the platter, here’s a jar of pickled onions and some deviled eggs. I’m afraid that Martha’s fancy appetisers will have to wait another day.

A cabin in the woods, Halifax, Nova Scotia
Winter 2003/Winter 2004
Soundtrack: Tool – Aenima

In December, we moved out of Sally’s place and into a log cabin at the bottom of a wooded dell. It was a small cabin — one bedroom, a bathroom with a plastic shower curtain that kind of stuck to you, a cramped kitchen, a breakfast nook and a living room. I’m struggling to remember if we had a wood stove. Something tells me there was a wood stove. Or at least, there should have been. Or at least, there used to be, where the breakfast nook now was. The water smelled of sulfur, which meant that the entire cabin reeked of rotten eggs anytime anyone took a shower. But we hadn’t lived alone, just the two of us, in over a year so our little gingerbread house felt like the Taj Mahal. It was quaint and cozy and just what we needed for a fresh start. A place to get us through our rough patch.

I made a lot of samosas and did hundreds of sun salutations in that cabin. I missed my sisters and my cousin something fierce and so I watched every single episode of every single season of Sex and the City, in an effort to feel closer to them. I chopped a lot of wood (at least I think I did). I ate a lot of cookies and popped a lot of popcorn and had a lot of deep conversations with K (which usually led to more cookies and more popcorn). I got high on mushrooms in that cabin and burst into tears while listening to Tool (a strange story for another day) and ate pot cookies that left me feeling like there was a sniper in the woods out to get me. That was the last time I did either of those drugs. I was getting too old for them then and I’m definitely too old for them now.

A friend of ours came to live with us that winter, having been through a nasty divorce. He bunked in the pint-sized loft space overlooking the living room. Each week, we’d move all the furniture to the edge of the living room, set out three mats and he’d lead us through a yoga practice. After a couple of months, he left for Jamaica, at which point K’s brother took his place in the loft. The cabin had never been intended for more than one person. We were now three, plus a dog, plus the occasional visit from B’s girlfriend, cramped in there tighter than passengers on an Air Ryan flight. We desperately needed more space and so we moved up the hill into a two-bedroom house with ocean view.

Umlahs Drive, Halifax, Nova Scotia
Spring 2005
Soundtrack: Carla Bruni – Quelqu’un m’a dit; Belle and Sebastien – Piazza New York Catcher

While the view was lovely, the mushrooms growing in the corner of the living room not so much. All that damp rolling off the ocean down below and the towering pine trees up above was prime conditions for fungi.

I worked two part-time jobs; shipping shellfish toxins for the National Research Council of Canada and shipping sex toys at Venus Envy. If you needed a dildo, the infamous rabbit vibrator, lube…. I was your woman! As for K, he was hired as the Assistant Manager at a local coffee roasting coop. The company was in the process of opening a chocolate factory that would specialise in organic, fair trade chocolate and they asked K to pioneer the project and become their official chocolatier in the Annapolis Valley.

In April, the company sent him to Paris to source out equipment and I went with him for, you know, moral support. Tasting all that chocolate was going to be tough. He could use all the help he could get. I’d never crossed the ocean and I had just received my tax refund, which could have gone towards… say… paying my credit card bill but when would I ever get the chance to go to Europe again? This was a once in a lifetime opportunity (ahem). And it was everything I’d hoped it would be. I’ll never forget those ten days in Paris in April, baguette under one arm and bottle of wine under the other, and all the chocolate from all the best chocolatiers just waiting to be savoured.

White Rock Road, Wolfville, Nova Scotia
Summer 2005/Spring 2006
Soundtrack: Jose Gonzales – Heartbeats; Sia – Breathe Me

After Paris, we moved to the Annapolis Valley. A guy named Paul, who also worked at the coop, was looking for someone to rent his house while he went on tour with his Band of Owls. Huge garden, 16 acres to roam, a river in which to wade, more rooms than we needed, fresh air, starlit skies. Our answer was a resounding yes.

Fast track…

U-hauled from Halifax to the Valley to live at Paul’s house, which was supposed to be a temporary rental, three months max, until we found a place of our own. I quit my jobs in the city and became the manager of the cafe at the chocolate factory. K became Willy Wonka Jr., I perfected my cappuccino. Opened shop, worked 60-hour weeks, lived and breathed coffee and chocolate. Paul came back from band tour. We said, “We no ready to leave your house. We no find another place to rent yet.” Paul said, “No problemo, you stay, I stay, we partay.”

We hired K’s brother as a handyman and his girlfriend to assist in the cafe. They needed a place to stay and I don’t need to tell you where they ended up. And then we were five, plus one dog, in poor Paul’s house. Five people. Five distinct personalities. One roof. Four cold winter months. One bathroom undergoing excruciatingly slow renovations.

Not only was it a full house… it was a gathering spot for friends.  The house on Whiterock Road was always whiterockin’ (no more cheesy puns past this point, I promise). Given its location, our friends saw it as a stopping point for a quick hello or a beer or a cup of coffee on the way to or from somewhere. The barn hosted many-a-late-night jam sessions and the hill behind the house, beneath the forest line, was perfect for the annual luge party each February.

Though we loved each other deeply, living together presented its challenges (after all, we not only lived together, we worked together and were in each others’ faces 24/7). And so we drank, a lot, during the winter of 2005, by the wood stove in the kitchen. And had random dance parties. It seemed to shrink the gap between our (minor) differences and made the winter seem less long. So even though there were times when we wanted to whack each other over the head with a cast-iron frying pan, the five of us made a great team and the good times always outweighed the fact that someone inevitably left their dirty dishes in the sink.

And when it did get to be all a bit much, I’d escape for a couple of hours. I joined a yoga studio in the next town over and a knitting group in the yarn barn up the hill. That’s where I learned to knit, around the fire, with real salt-of-the-earth folk.

In April, K’s brother and girlfriend left for England. By May, we had overstayed our welcome by about ten months and since Paul had promised to rent a room out to someone else, it was time for us to find our own spot.

Lockhartville Road, Hantsport, Nova Scotia
April 2006 – February 2008
Soundtrack: Thievery Corporation – Radio Retaliation; K-OS – Crabbucket; Martha Wainwright – Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole

Fast track again…

K&J tired of renting. K&J meet amazing woman, Kim. Kim has beautiful house for sale. K&J meet with Kim and her partner Bob for several weeks to discuss buying house, five minutes away from chocolate factory. Drink lots of whiskey. Kim and Bob are angels sent down from heaven, they give J&K a generous discount. K&J buy their first house.

I loved that house: the built-in shelves, the cemetery at the top of the hill, the 3.6 acres of land, the woods, the creek trickling through, the fireplace and the hearth with fossils cemented into it, the huge cedar deck overlooking the marsh, K’s workspace in the garage, my studio/yoga room, our gardens (our gardens!!!), the koi pond and all the frogs that gathered around it, our sweet neighbours who plowed our driveway after snowstorms without asking for anything in return, the colour of the sunrise over the ocean basin in the distance, and most of all, the fact that it was ours. And nobody was living with us. Hallelujah. At last! I also loved the Valley, flanked by the north and south mountains, the apple blossoms in the spring, the fields of frosted pumpkins in the fall, the lakes, the lazy tube rides down Gaspereau River, the vineyards that made the worst wine but were open on Sundays, the Wolfville Farmer’s Market… and most of all, our friends.

We had a great first six months in that house and then tragedy struck. We lost our dog one November night. We were used to him running up to the woods behind our house, and we were used to him coming back. But this time he didn’t. We called his name all through the night. In the morning, our neighbour, an eighty-year-old man whose skin looked like salt from all his years of living by the sea asked us if we were looking for our dog. We said yes. He said, matter-of-factly, “Your dog’s dead.” I hadn’t suffered much loss in my life prior to that point. And I had no idea that a little shelter dog from Nelson would carve such a large place in my heart. He had been our kid for five years. He was always by our side. He was our best friend. His death broke us.

We had lost our jobs months before (the chocolate business just wasn’t thriving out there, in the middle of nowhere) and did the only thing we could do in a small town with a high unemployment rate — we reinvented ourselves and became self-employed. I learned how to build websites and make jewelry, K learned how to build custom wood boxes and corkboards. We sold our wares at the farmer’s market every week. We worked non-stop just to pay the bills and the mortgage. It wasn’t easy.

The winter of 2007/2008 was a cold one and a long one and a dark one. We fought a lot after Dylan died. I suppose that when he died, our relationship did too. There was nothing left to keep us together. We drank a bottle two bottles of wine every night and rented movies until there was nothing left to rent. It became embarrassing going to the liquor store and the video shop. “Don’t you two have a life?” we could feel the shop keepers asking. Our friends commented that they never saw us any more. And they were right. There was nothing to see, really.

I walked into his workshop one morning after another one of our three-day fights. I handed him a cup of tea as a peace-offering and he said, “I’m done.” And this time I knew that he meant it. I was devastated but not surprised. I called my friend, Kat, in tears. I said, I need to pack my bags and get out of here before he changes his mind. I knew that it was time to end this chapter of my life and I was afraid that if he said he’d made a mistake, I’d stay. Kat booked (and generously paid) for my plane ticket back to Montreal. I left on Valentine’s day. We’d been together for twelve years. It felt like the end of an era.

Next: the single/Montreal years.

And if you want to catch up, you can read about my time in the Maritimes, then Jamaica, Ontario and Alberta and before that the college years and prior to that, the days of my youth.

Now, where were we? Ah yes, we were just leaving Nelson and driving back home with a car full of stuff and a head full of dreadlocks and a dog that we adopted from the local shelter. We went to Nelson, had a complete reverse makeover (from young professionals to free spirits) and left very different people from the couple who’d rocked up the year before. Nelson will do that to you.

So brew yourself a cup of tea and maybe grab few biscuits and a blanket. This is going to be a bit of a bumpy ride. Most transitions are.

Rang St-Jacques, St-Barthélemy, Québec
Autumn/Winter 2002
Soundtrack: Coldplay – Yellow

When we arrived in Montreal, we didn’t have a pot to piss in. Hippies aren’t generally renowned for their money-making/saving savvy. At least, we hippies weren’t. We initially moved in with my sister Michelle in the small town where I grew up. Ain’t much to do there except watch the clouds go by and listen to the cows chew cud. No offence citizens and family of St-Barthélemy. I have nothing against clouds and cows. I love clouds and cows. It’s the lack of anonymity that I found difficult. There’s a Québécois saying about small towns and it goes something like this: “Tu pètes un soir, tout le monde le sait le lendemain.” Translation: You fart one night and everybody knows about it the next morning.

Coming home isn’t always the amazing, marching-band homecoming you think it’s going to be. Even though you’ve changed, often nothing else has, and it’s hard to keep sight of who you’ve become when everyone around you only sees who you used to be, and expects you to be the way they knew you back then. I suppose change makes people feel uncomfortable. Or perhaps it was envy. I know what that feels like, I’ve been there. People coming back from travels to faraway lands, telling you about all the wonderful places they’ve seen and the people they’ve met and me, answering the standard response to their well-meaning “So, what have you been up to?” question… Oh, you know, same old, same old… In other words, man, I’m happy for you but I sure wish it didn’t make me feel so shitty about myself. Whatever the reason, and without malicious intent on anyone’s part, it was hard to transition back. Like trying to fit into a pair of jeans two sizes too small. They used to fit… but you’ve since outgrown them.

I spent my days “trimming plants” for a friend’s “green” business. Working in a basement with no windows (for obvious reasons) probably didn’t help my state of mind. It always smelled of urine, the plumbing was bad. I was permanently stoned on the resin alone. Not fun stoned… just fuzzy around the edges. It wasn’t what you would call a vibrant workplace (I think I remember the music selection being good though) and it was pretty risky business but I was in my twenties and I desperately needed the cash and this was a quick way to earn some. It was a seasonal job and when the job was done, I got going.

Rue Cartier, Montreal, Québec
Eight months in 2003
Soundtrack: Buck 65 – Wicked and Weird

K moved in with his parents in the West Island and I moved in with my sister Christina and my cousin Amy in Montreal’s Plateau Mont-Royal, a neighbourhood known for its bohemian flair, brightly coloured houses and spiral staircases, cool cafés and book shops and back alleys with graffiti on garage doors and clothes drying on the line.

My ex-boss at McGill offered me an office job. She said, “It pays well, office hours are 8:00 – 3:30 and you get Fridays off in the summer.” (And it’s legal). How could I refuse? So I spent four days a week commuting between Montreal and MacDonald Campus. I loved getting up at 6am, walking the quiet morning streets to the metro station, getting off at Lionel Groulx to hop on the 211 bus for an hour. It sounds like  a chore (and these days, perhaps I’d think so too) but I loved it. I used that hour to observe people, watch the world go by and write about it, every day, on the way to and from work. It was a very creative time in my life.

My weekends were spent deepening my Ashtanga yoga practice, going to gigs with my pals Collin and Shawn, enjoying amazing food, chilling at a friend’s cottage up north, writing in coffee shops, walking around the city and hosting the occasional gathering. Ok, so maybe our place was party central (case in point, see ridiculous white-trash theme party above). Welcome to my twenties.

I can only sum up 2003 in two words – good times!

I loved my time in Montreal. I truly did. That year may have been one of the best years (or at least the most fun) of my life. My Nelson self eventually succumbed to Montreal’s city ways. First I shaved my armpits, then the lip ring went, then I chopped off my dreads, then I entered Urban Outfitters and that was it. I became urbanised.

But the truth is, I was and remain a country girl at heart. I can do the city thing, but it’s not who I really am. I like that my nails aren’t done up; in fact, even better if they have dirt under them from gardening. There was a time in my life when you couldn’t find a single pair of high heels in my house, but there were plenty of wellies. The most makeup I wear is lip balm and, occasionally, mascara. What can I say? You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.

So a year into our stay, you guessed it… K felt that itch again, the need for an adventure (living with your parents at age 30 will do that to you). In August he packed our dog and our camping gear and took a road trip out east. We’d been curious about living by the ocean and we figured since we’d never made it to the west coast, might as well explore the east coast. While he went to scratch that itch and find us a home, I stayed back. He eventually ended up in Purcell’s Cove, just outside of Halifax, at the studio of a potter named Sally. She had a room in her house which she offered to us in exchange for help on her land and in her studio. Six weeks later, after a tearful goodbye, I hopped on a plane to meet up with my guys.

Pottery Lane, Halifax, Nova Scotia
Fall 2003
Soundtrack: Björk – All is Full of Love

Journal entry, October 2003:

Since I’ve arrived, I’ve witnessed the effects of Mother Nature going on a bender and savagely yanking trees out of the ground like carrots and flinging anything she could get her hands on.  I sawed through countless fallen trees and found the most unusual treasures washed up on rocky shores.  I learned from a 4-year-old boy named Noah that all of the beautiful pieces of ocean-sanded beach glass that I’m collecting are called mermaid tears.

I now have a bowl full of tears.

On the morning of September 28th 2003, my flight landed in Halifax. That night, at 12:10am, hurricane Juan hit the coast of Nova Scotia with fierce winds of 147km/hr and gusts up to 173km/hr, hailing meter-high water surges and bringing mass destruction unseen by Haligonians since the great explosion of 1917. It was the most powerful and damaging hurricane to ever hit Canada.

And that is how my journey there began. In a whirlwind.

I slept right through Hurricane Juan, strangely unaware of what was happening outside, all around me. However, what I woke up to the next morning is a sight I’ll never forget. Half of the trees on Sally’s wooded lot had been blown down, her dock had been washed away, the ocean had ripped the shoreline apart and thrown up debris all over what was left of her back yard. It looked like a war zone. It’s amazing that there was little damage to her house.

My first 13 days in Nova Scotia were spent without electricity, running water or, for that matter, any way out of the cove as our car (and Sally’s long driveway to the outside world) were buried under a tangle of trees.

Luckily she had a propane stove, a freezer full of food that had to be eaten lest it spoil and access to water. The bathroom rule was if it’s yellow let it go, if it’s brown flush it down with a bucket of rain water. For bathing, we walked 20 minutes down a wooded path to Purcell’s Pond. It was bitterly cold – October waters sting like a thousand tiny daggers – but it did the job.

As catastrophic as it was, I was amazed by how our small community pulled together to clean everything up. The army was busy in Halifax and it would take a while for them to make their way out to the cove. The days after the hurricane were sunny and warm and you could hear the sound of chain saws calling to each other from one side of the bay to the other like irate crows. Every single person in the community was outside, sawing through trees, raking debris, fixing what had been broken, sharing food and stories. Neighbours, people I’d never met before, offered me hot coffee with every wheel barrow load of broken branches that I dumped at the top of the road. They fed me blueberry muffins, blueberry pound cake, blueberry loaves, blueberry pancakes… until all the blueberries had been picked and consumed. I witnessed, during those first few weeks, the friendliness and hospitality that Maritimers are renowned for.

What I didn’t know was that another hurricane was about to hit…

On our first night out of the cove, K and I went out for dinner and a movie. After dinner, K parked the car outside of the cinema. I could sense that something was wrong. Something had felt wrong ever since I’d arrived. I chalked it up to the whole crazy-ass hurricane thing. But then he said those words that nobody ever wants to hear “I have to tell you something” and my immediate response was “No, no, no, NO, God damn you NO”. He’d cheated on me when he first arrived in Halifax with some girl he’d met on the night of our 8-year anniversary. On our anniversary night? Dude, are you fucking kidding me?

It hurt. It hurt bad. It hurt long. A million times I wanted to go home. A million times I stayed. I was so disillusioned by the whole affair that I thought, well, if he could do it, anyone could so I might as well stay with him.

She called. I told her to never call again. I then bumped into her along a path in the woods outside of our house. My woods. How dare she come to my sacred place, the place I came to escape the whole thing? I told her to go find her own damn woods. Actually, what really happened was that I hardly acknowledged her and then spent the rest of the day alternating between crying and mocking her pig nose. I wanted someone to hate. I needed someone to blame. Because if I blamed him and yet stayed with him, what did that make me? It made me the weak one. And so I directed every ounce of anger that I had towards her. The anger kept me from falling apart.

Eventually, I healed. The pain was acute at first, became chronic for a little while, then dulled over time. Months later, I bumped into her at the farmer’s market and maybe her nose wasn’t so piggish after all but that was the extent of the energy I’d put towards her. A year later, our anniversary came rolling around and I was reminded of that day, the day I thought I would never recover from. What a difference a year makes. The hurt had gone and so had the anger, leaving but a small scar for trust. The trust, you see, would never fully recover.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself. Before that healing could happen, we had a long and bumpy road ahead of us. And so, of course, we moved again.